The Apartment
by Sargent Snarky
Summary: very postRENT I didn’t believe them when they told me it was haunted. I was an idiot. And yet… I don’t regret seeing them. Meeting him. And learning their story.
1. Prologue

Title: The Apartment

Author: Sargent Snarky

Rating: T (for now, though it may be bumped up, later, for language, drug & alcohol use, violence, sexual references and possibly content, etc.)

Genre: Supernatural / General

Summary: (very postRENT) I didn't believe them when they told me it was haunted. I was an idiot. And yet… I don't regret seeing _them_. Meeting _him_. And learning _their_ story.

Notes: Basically, this is a first person narrative told from the point of view of someone of an unspecified sex (I haven't decided quite yet if it's male or female) who moves into the apartment Mark and Roger lived in years before this story takes place. This person has ignored warnings that the place is haunted and is therefore quite shocked to meet the ghosts… To see them replay scenes from those Boho years.

For reference, the entire cast is dead by now, but I've no specific year in mind for this to take place.

And feel free to be as harsh as you want in reviews, though please DO review. I LOVE feedback. Keep in mind, though, that I've only ever seen the movie and read detailed synopses of the play. Also, I've only seen the movie once, unfortunately, while it was still in theaters, so pleas forgive me if I am not entirely correct in my details. If I had a copy of the movie or something, I'd try to be more accurate, but, alas, I do not. I can only hope I get characterizations and whatnot correct.

Also, I am aware that the prologue is a bit rambling and not that greatly written, but oh well. I intend to be better in writing the chapters themselves and probably will, at some point, rewrite the prologue once I've got a better idea of where this story is going.

Lastly, in case you are interested, this was inspired partially by me not being able to sleep, partially by assorted bits of music I was listening to, the reading of lots of RENT fanfiction (and finding no ghost ones) and partially by an ongoing roleplay with one who, at this site, goes by The Elfmaniac. Yes, it is a RENT roleplay (I play Mark, Maureen and Joanne, though mostly Mark), but it has nothing whatsoever to do with this story; it's just what reminded me just how very much I love RENT, despite disagreeing with some of the underlying principles of it, as well as much of the bohemian lifestyle. Heh. Not all of it, but I myself would _never_ be a bohemian in anything but how I dress and accepting people as they are.

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Prologue: 

I didn't believe them when they told me that the cheap, shitty, industrial apartment I was intent on renting was haunted. Why should I? Who believed in ghosts, anymore, anyway? All the "unexplained phenomena" _could_ be explained, after all, with science. With observation. With analysis.

Things, forms, spots, hazes appearing in a photograph when there hadn't been any visible to the human eye? These were motes of dust on the lens, in the film developing chemicals, light distortions caused by reflection and refraction of light.

Strange balls of light appearing without a source? Just like St. Elmo's Fire, these were bursts of static electricity and nothing more.

Whispering voices that didn't come from any living throat? Echoes that had been distorted through distance and bouncing off of other surfaces. Or air currents whistling and murmuring through nooks and crannies.

Shifting objects? Drafts in the room. Changes in air pressure. Light, almost imperceptible earth quakes.

Need I _really_ go on with all the different symptoms of a haunted area and their scientific explanations? You get the point, right? Well, even if you don't, I'm moving on with this story. I don't want this to turn into a lecture, after all.

Anyway, where was I? Ah yes… the apartment.

Well, the apartment was just a loft in an old industrial apartment building in Alphabet City. It wasn't the best part of town, but it wasn't the absolute worst. It was mostly a community filled with rejected, dejected artists. The ones that, when asked what their job was, muttered something in a slightly bitter tone about being freelance. And the ones who spent their days too drugged out to care. But, they left me more or less alone, save for warning me about the apartment.

I had asked why this place I'd selected to live in (mostly based on pricing, proximity, lack of nosy neighbors and vacancy) had been cheaper than all the nearby apartments, and why no one else had wanted it. They'd told me that it was haunted. They said that usually there was only one ghost, a thin, pale, geeky sort of young man with piercing blue eyes hidden behind glasses and a black and white striped scarf always around his neck. He always carried one of those old home video cameras that one had to crank, wind up in order to get it to record. He usually sat there, somewhere, staring off into space. Sometimes he'd cry, sometimes he'd hum, sometimes he'd be filming something, and other times, he'd be watching things one could see reflected off of his eyes and his glasses and the lens of his camera. Not that anyone had ever stayed long enough to look.

But sometimes, they also said, other ghosts joined him. And other times, he'd play out scenes entirely his own, alone.

Sometimes, in June, he'd be in the bathroom, staring at a too thin, young girl, who was in the bathtub, her wrists each bearing a deep slash, reaching all the way to each artery. If one stayed long enough, one would see her turn her pallid, damp face towards him and smile. She would whisper to him and gesture weakly to the mirror, where, for a brief few moments, one might have seen written in lipstick a suicide note. No one stayed long enough after that to see how the grisly scene ended.

Sometimes, during the next few months, one might see him in the apartment with another man, a taller, sturdier built, though still gangly pale man with green eyes and blond hair, no glasses. This man had bags under his eyes and a wild look in his eyes as he demanded just one more hit, begged to be allowed to get his precious smack. Ranted and raved at and fought with the blue eyed man to let him out of the apartment. Often, these fights were violent, and the blue eyed man suffered almost more than the green eyed one, who was going through withdrawal from his drug. And sometimes an older man with light brown skin and hair that was prematurely graying would be there, helping the blue eyed man out with his efforts to assist the green eyed one in becoming clean. Whether they succeeded or whether in one of the withdrawal induced rages the green eyed one managed to escape, regain his precious substance, no one was really certain.

Sometimes, on Halloween, one could find him talking to himself about a previous Christmas Eve, musing depressed thoughts aloud about an Angel who had just died and how things were steadily falling apart.

Sometimes right after, sometimes within a few days of that scene, a new girl would be there, with curly hair and a lithe body, as would a new man. He was black and dressed nicer than the others. Two other women were there, too, a black woman who had that look all lawyers have about them and another flamboyant, energetic voluptuous woman. And the green eyed man of before was there. And they all argued with each other, even as the blue eyed man did his level best to be peacemaker, as the graying man stared at them with sadness in his eyes, wondering how things could fall apart so badly. What happened next, again, no one stayed to see.

But Christmas… Christmas was the day upon which the ghosts acted the most. It always began with the blue and green eyed men ranting about rent. Soon after, another man would enter, the nicely dressed man, and he would promise them free rent in exchange for a favor, and they would always refuse. Later, the graying man would come in accompanied by a transvestite who danced around, drumming on the tables and walls, bringing life into the place. Three of them would leave, eventually, and the lithe curly haired girl would come in, asking the green eyed one to light her candle. Or, at least that is how various witnesses pieced together the day.

On New Years, all of the ghosts were gathered, save for the transvestite, and the lithe girl would be lying on the table, breathing her last while the green eyed man clutched her frail body, singing to her. Whether she died then or not, no one was sure, because, as usual, no one ever stuck around long enough to find out.

And there were other days during which scenes played out. Not all days, but enough. Enough for there to be plenty of witnesses, attesting to these dramas. Attesting, but offering no proof.

They had told me all of this with great sincerity, warning me only to live there at my own peril. Who knew if the blue eyed ghost – the only, they said, who seemed most real – was merely a grieving soul trapped in his own memories or a demon taking the form of one who'd left part of his soul there.

And I had laughed in their solemn faces. And they had looked at me with sad pity. Then, they'd left me alone.

Now, I only wish I'd listened to them.

Now, I wish I hadn't scoffed at them, thinking them all delusional, or all just pulling my leg. And yet… In a way, I'm eternally grateful for the chance to witness the phantoms and to see love, hate, friendship, betrayal, life, death and all manner of things flow so strongly there. And, of course, I will never forget meeting him, that blue eyed ghost who told me the story that pierced my soul.

All the same, I miss the bliss of ignorance.

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AN: First chapter coming whenever I've time to write it; most likely, that won't happen for at least a week. Furthermore, if everyone ignores this story, I may not even bother. Although, knowing me, I'll at least post the first chapter, and keep on writing until I lose inspiration, which'll happen all the sooner if I've got no reviews to inspire me, but whatever.

Sargent Snarky


	2. The First Ghost

Title: The Apartment

Author: Sargent Snarky

Rating: T (for now, though it may be bumped up, later, for language, drug & alcohol use, violence, sexual references and possibly content, etc.)

Genre: Supernatural / General

Summary: (very postRENT) I didn't believe them when they told me it was haunted. I was an idiot. And yet… I don't regret seeing _them_. Meeting _him_. And learning _their_ story.

Notes: So, this is told from the POV of a yet unnamed woman. Yes, I've decided that the nararrator is female... Well, I didn't decide... It's just... as this went on, I grew very certain that it was female. >.> Yeah. Anyway...

I think I forgot to disclaim the last chapter, but it applies then and now that I do not own RENT or any aspect of it. I do, however, own the narrator of this story and the plot. >.> Or, own it as much as one can own any written word. Yeah.

To you reviewers, though, I'm very greatful! I love you guys! I'm soooo amazed by how positive you guys were, and for that I thank you very, very much! But, don't be afraid to critisize if you don't like something or see something that's wrong or bad... so... This chapter is for you guys!

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Chapter 1: The First Ghost 

Mark. Mark Cohen, that was his name.

Of course, I didn't know that when I first saw that blue-eyed ghost, two days after I'd moved in, but he told me, later. As in after I'd stared at him, blinking stupidly, my mouth somewhat agape, of course, and after I'd turned right around and went back to my bed, fully convinced that I was still asleep. It was, after all, still quite early in the morning. Too early, actually. Also, it was after, upon waking up again an hour later, I came back out and he was still there, this time sitting on the metal table instead of standing by the fire escape.

"Oh, holy shit," I said, freezing where I stood.

He blinked, lifting his eyebrows at me and adjusting his glasses on his nose. But, he didn't say anything, just giving me that questioning look.

"You're still here," I groaned, displacing my own glasses so that I could rub my eyes.

He nodded. I rubbed them again.

"But, you can't be," I continued, adjusting and readjusting my spectacles. My voice grew a bit frantic as I went on: "There's no such thing as ghosts. Although, if you're not a ghost, but merely a creepy bastard invading my apartment, I suggest you leave before I pull out a gun and shoot you." I took a step backwards, now in the doorway of my room. I really _did_ have a gun with me, under my pillow, loaded, but with the safety on. It didn't hurt to be able to defend myself, after all, despite the fact that guns were technically illegal to possess in New York City.

He blinked and shook his head. "I'm not a ghost," he said, his voice soft and sad, not the voice one would expect from a creepy invasive bastard. Still, I took half a step backwards. "I'm a memory," he corrected, and I paused.

"Whose memory?" I asked, suspicious as before.

"My own."

"And who are you?"

"Mark Cohen, filmmaker, watcher, documenter, listener, friend."

And then he was gone, leaving me confused and unsettled. Well, more than confused an unsettled. I was downright freaking out.

Maybe… maybe there really were ghosts? Maybe the other tenants spoke the truth? Or… hell, I could have been imagining things… right? Right.

I looked at the clock. Three in the morning. Ok, I was defiantly sleep walking, so I returned to bed. And when I woke up five hours later, he wasn't there. So, I forgot about it, or tried to. It was hard, though. His eyes… those piercing, sad eyes, full of memory and yet empty of life. They were what stuck in my memory and refused to be forgotten. But, I did manage to push the thought of them from my immediate thoughts.

That is… until a week or so later, on a Sunday, when I didn't have work, he was there, again.

The blue eyed man… Mark was sitting in a chair, watching me as I came out of the bathroom from my lukewarm shower. I'd went ahead an put on a t-shirt and comfy flannel pajama pants, as I had no intention of leaving the apartment that day, instead quite content to remain and work on the novel I was attempting to write. So, at least I wasn't just covered with a slightly ratty bath towel. Still, the utter invasion of privacy was _not_ nice.

"Holy fucking shit!" I practically screamed, quite beyond startled.

But then, as he lifted his eyebrows, still calmly gazing at me, waiting, it seemed, to be addressed, I calmed down a little. My heart still thudded against my ribs, however, and my pulse did not decrease just yet. But, to cover this up, I scowled. I scowled good and darkly at him, which puzzled him faintly. Good. He needed to be confused. Jerk.

"You're not real. Go away," I snapped.

He looked a little hurt.

"Don't give me that stupid look! Ghost, memory or whatever, you, mister, are just a figment of my imagination, something that is not real."

During the times when I _had_ actually thought about him, I'd convinced myself that I'd grown paranoid due to the stories I'd been told and had thus conjured up, with my own mind, this "ghost" to bug me. Yes, I was fearful that I'd become slightly schizophrenic, imagining a fellow person to inhabit this apartment.

"I'm a figment of imagination," he agreed with a slight nod as his eyes slid off into the middle distance. "But not yours. You are just a witness."

"Ah, shit," I muttered, still scowling. "Fine. Stay. Whatever. Just… just… stay out of my way."

I really hadn't been in the mood to argue with something born of my own over active imagination. So, I stalked past him over to the kitchenette and, after filling the electronic kettle and praying that the power was on, I began to boil water. I didn't have a proper coffee machine, but I'd found a fairly cheap and fairly decent instant coffee that served as substitute for the real stuff.

While awaiting the kettle to whistle and click off, I returned to where I could see him sitting on the chair. He was fiddling with his old camera, or at least that's what it looked like, but he glanced up when I began to speak.

Glowering at the man, I said, "I'm not afraid of you, you know."

He lifted an eyebrow and returned to hid fiddling. I think he was loading film. Ghost film…?

"I really am not!" I insisted, taking his actions to be a sign of disbelief. "And just so you know, you're _not_ welcome here in _my_ apartment, so you had better leave!"

Here he paused. I though he would laugh at my pathetic attempt at a threat, but he didn't. Instead, he straightened up from his hunch, this time leaning back against the back of the chair. His eyes rested upon me as his lips quirked into a wry smile.

_"Your_ apartment?" he queried, as if he thought I were lying.

"Yes, it _is_ my apartment! I signed the lease, and I paid my rent straight up! I also have a job, so I shall continue to pay rent for as long as I live here!"

"Your apartment?" he repeated in a similar tone, but with less inflection. Before I could further protest or justify, he continued: "Well, perhaps you rent it, but it isn't yours. Not really. Nor is it the landlord's. He may own the site of the building, and he may own the building on top of it, but… Not this apartment."

"Well, who owns it then?" I asked, a bit of a growl in my tone. "You?"

The latter I added in a scornful tone, but a wan smile twitched his lips and he nodded. "Me and Roger, mostly," he said softly. "Or at least we used to… now it's just me. They've all left… Left me behind to watch them live. And die." His voice was sad. Mournful, but not regretful. Nor was it bitter. Yet, there was a bitterness to his words.

"Who…?" Despite myself, I was actually interested. For a few moments I'd forgotten and continued to forget that this was a ghost who was a figment of my imagination brought on by stress and paranoia due to the stories of my neighbors.

"April, Angel, Mimi, Collins, Roger, Maureen and Joanne. Oh, and Benny, for a while. They're all gone now."

"Who… were they?"

"My friends. Best friends."

"Oh."

His lovely blue eyes, which had turned away, gazing at the middle distance, now returned to me, fixing me with an intent, yet hesitant gaze. "Do…. Do you want to… see them?"

"Huh?"

I was about to ask what he meant when the bright, cheery, yet nagging whistle of my electronic kettle sounded, breaking the moment. I started, coming back to myself. Realizing what I had been doing – talking to this _thing_ that wasn't anything at all! – I quickly composed myself and shook my head before turning on my heel and stalking back to the counter and the kettle.

I purposefully avoided looking up as I made my coffee, not wishing to see what I was sure would be disappointed, sad eyes in that weary, yet young face. However, when I finally did look up, as I lifted the mug to take a test sip, I nearly dropped it, for he was gone. Mark Cohen had vanished. Again!

But, instead of making me afraid or worrying me, this simply annoyed me. So, it was with a hmph of displeasure that I plopped down, with my teddy bear mug (Yes, laugh if you must, but the mug had several small teddy bears holding balloons dancing around its surface; I'd had the mug since I was like six years old, and it hadn't broken yet, so it remained in my cupboard. Ok, stop laughing now.) into the seat that Mark had occupied. Or seemed to occupy.

Perhaps I'd been unconsciously expecting the seat to be icy with the chill of death or perhaps gummy with some residual ectoplasm, but I found myself feeling slightly disappointed. And so, my irritation with the Mark character increased. And when I realized the source of my increased perturbation, I kicked myself and my mood became worse.

That day sucked. Mark Cohen sucked. The shitty apartment sucked because it was on an older power grid, so the lights flickered sometimes and other times there'd be several minute brown outs for no reason. And my attitude spiraled steadily downwards. Chances were good, though, that a large part of the problem was the hormonal imbalance that causes PMS, as it was that time of the month, too.

Thus it is with pity that one should think of Mark when I next encountered him. Or he next encountered me. Whichever the hell it was. Which was that evening. Lucky, lucky Mark.

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AN: It's a short chapter, shorter than I'd like to post, but it ends at a good break, due to how this progresses.. Sorry if this chapter seemed weird or... ooc or something. It was mostly written after performing Seussical or after late running practices... so... it was written while I was very tired and probably not thinking clearly. Therefore, forgive typos and things, but do let me know where they are.

Sargent Snarky


	3. The Soundtrack To Hell

Title: The Apartment

Author: Sargent Snarky

Rating: T (for now, though it may be bumped up, later, for language, drug & alcohol use, violence, sexual references and possibly content, etc.)

Genre: Supernatural / General

Summary: (very postRENT) I didn't believe them when they told me it was haunted. I was an idiot. And yet… I don't regret seeing _them_. Meeting _him_. And learning _their_ story.

Disclaimer: If I owned RENT, not only would I be a guy, but I would also (at this point in time) be a dead guy. Chances are good, if you're a dead guy, you aren't writing anything. Chances are also good that if you own something, you're not gonna be writing fanfiction for it. Ergo, in summary, I don't own RENT.

Notes: Yeah, yeah. It's taken me a while to get it out, and I do apologize for that. I just had a lot of trouble with writing this chapter. this is probably the third or forth version of it.

Anyway... further notes about the content are at the bottom. If you've any questsions, though, just ask me in a review. Anyway... er... enjoy...?

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**Chapter 2: The Soundtrack to Hell**

Once I'd finished glowering at the wall and drinking my drink, I eventually got up and retreated to the corner where the phone was located and where I'd set up a workspace for my writing. There were a couple of notebooks there and pencil holder filled with an assortment of mechanical pencils, variously colored ink pens, a two gel pens with fluffy feathers on the end, a few paint brushes and a fairy wand. I don't know why I hung on to that thing, but I'd had that wand since I was in forth grade. My brother gave it to me. I haven't seen him in years – since he disappeared somewhere. I don't remember where.

Anyway, my computer was also at the desk, and it was this device that I decided to use tonight, rather than handwriting anything. Just for the record, I don't make a habit of keeping a diary now, and I didn't then. I just wrote down snatches of stories that occurred to me, bits of dialogue. Maybe, if something really weird happened at work or whatever, I'd note it down, but mostly it was just random scenes and things.

But, when I worked on my computer, I was actively working on my manuscript for my novel. My novel that I _would_ finish. That I _wouldn't_ abandon in the middle of writing it, like I'd done with so many other projects.

For the past couple of days, I'd been having a bit of writer's block as to how to proceed with a certain scene, but whether it was because my frustration and annoyance had unlocked some barrier or because of something else entirely, I now sped through writing with great ease. Indeed, I spent the rest of the day sitting there, immersed in the world I'd created through my words and imagination.

I would have probably stayed there, working late into the night until I fell asleep on the keyboard or something, if I hadn't been distracted and, therefore, interrupted.

At first, I don't think I noticed it, the faint strumming of a vaguely familiar melody (perhaps something I'd played on the piano when I was subjected to lessons as a kid, or maybe I'd heard it on the classical station of the radio; I dunno, but it wasn't familiar enough for me to put a name to it, though I recognize the tune), played upon guitar strings. Which was funny because I didn't own a guitar. I had a flute, a kazoo and a clay ocarina I made in high school ceramics class, but no guitar.

Anyway, though I didn't notice the melody at first, eventually, I paused in my writings, looking up from the computer and frowning, wondering where the hell it was coming from. Was it one of my neighbors? Was there someone on the roof, plucking it out, and the sound was dropping through the skylight (which I had, by the way, temporarily fixed with duck tape and wax paper)?

I tried to ignore the haunting waltz and turned back to the pale glow of my word processor, displayed upon the screen. However, at that point, the player of said melody plucked a wrong note rather loudly, and I sighed, irritated. If this person was going to forcibly provide a soundtrack to my writing, the least they could do was get it right. Nevertheless, I attempted to keep on plodding through my story. But, alas, the distraction had done its work of, well, distracting me, and I had completely lost the train of thought I'd been pursuing in this portion of my story.

Therefore, I sat there during the intervening few moments of silence, staring at the page I was on, chewing my lip and rereading the last couple paragraphs in the hope of tripping the thought process again. However, yet again, distraction ensued, and the melody started again. This time, I actually paid attention to it and was confused to realize that it had to be coming from somewhere in my apartment.

Another bit of schizophrenia manifesting itself, perhaps?

Frowning, I got up, my spine cracking a bit, and one or two other joints popping in protest of having been kept in one position for so very many hours. So, I took a few moments to relieve them by stretching before I followed the guitar sound to one of the two rooms besides the main one and the bathroom. Well, they weren't so much two rooms as one room that had been divided into two by some really thin walling. Anything going on in one room could be heard in the other, and neither was particularly big. I had hung a hammock diagonally in one to serve as my bed, and I stored things in the other.

Anyway, first I checked in the room where I stored stuff – nothing. So, my minstrel was in my bedroom. Lovely.

I opened the door, and who do you think it was, plucking out a melody on the guitar?

Wrong! It wasn't Mark Cohen. It was someone completely different, and I let out another one of my oh-so-charming, profanity laded screeches. But, the man, sitting on what I could only assume to be an invisible mattress, didn't even flinch. He just kept strumming away.

He was a long and lanky sort of guy, with shortish, spiky bleached blonde hair (Blonde. Ha. Why did everyone have to have blonde hair? Brunette hair is very nice! But no one _ever_ dyes his or her hair brown.). I couldn't see his eyes or his face that well, as he was hunched over his guitar, staring at the stings, but from what I could tell, he looked kind of handsome, in that gaunt, rock star sort of way.

Anyway, following my scream, I stared at him and his lack of response for another minute or two before I growled out an order for him to get his guitar-pluckin' ass out of my bedroom and out of my apartment. However, I was interrupted by Mark's voice.

He murmured, from right behind me, "He used to play that _all the fucking time_."

I jumped, being quite startled, and spun around to face Mark. I scowled at him. Worse than scowled. I verily glowered. But, before I could get a word out, he continued with a sigh:

"Maybe you'll be lucky and only have to listen to one concert comprised of Musetta's Waltz, but, if he keeps it up, you'll be with me in agreeing that the soundtrack to Hell is Musetta's Waltz. And yet…" A soft smile curved his lips as he looked past me at Roger, who had set his instrument aside and flopped back onto his invisible mattress. "I'd rather hear him playing that again – actually hear him play it, not just the memory of him playing it – than any other sound."

Curiosity got the better of me for a moment, and, glancing back to the oblivious Roger, I asked, "Why? You two, like, a couple or something?"

Mark blinked, giving me an odd look. "No. Not like you're thinking. We were best friends. Brothers who just happened to not be related in any genetic sense."

"Oh. Hey, if you're here and talking to me, then why doesn't he even notice we're here?" I asked, curiosity still ruling me.

"Because… He's a memory."

"But… you said earlier that you _were_ a memory."

"I am."

"Then how come you two can't –"

"He's a memory of a memory… Just a projected image of memories. And this… isn't my memory, but a memory of this place. I can only watch it."

I adjusted my glasses and shook my head, letting out a puff of air in exasperation. "Well, stop watching it and get him _out_ of my room, then, _memory_. Whatever the hell you are." I was back to my glowering. "You can get yourself out, why can't you get him out?"

Mark rolled his eyes a little, turning them back to Roger and ignoring me. Roger, meanwhile, was beginning to act very twitchy. He sat up again and reached for his guitar. But then, after he had the guitar, he put it back down, bouncing his legs a little as he seemed to be debating what to do. Peering a bit harder at him, I noticed how very… out of it, he looked. He seemed to be coming out of it now, and had been coming out of it since he started playing the music, but if I didn't know any better, I would have said he had been, very recently, high on… something. Then again, I thought, I didn't know any better, so perhaps my guess was right.

Anyway, Roger scratched at his arms, eyes darting around nervously, mouth forming various profane words. Then, he got to his feet and began rifling through invisible drawers and piles of things that became visible for brief flashes of time as he touched them. And he grew more agitated.

"Oh shit," he groaned, closing his eyes as a spasm went down his spine; he shivered violently for a few moments before he managed to quell it. "I… no… I can do this. I can fuckin' do this. She said I could, said we could. Said we should, and I can. But, oh God! Why does it have to hurt so much? April!"

He looked towards the door, looking right at us, though he didn't see us. "April, where are you?" he called in a strained voice as he began to shiver again. Roger clenched his jaw and took a staggering step or two towards us, causing me to jerk back a little, though he was still several feet away..

I glanced questioningly at Mark. However, Mark's eyes were fixed upon Roger, and I went ignored. It was odd, though, seeing Mark look so… pained. So… guilty. So wretched as he looked on. I was just beginning to feel some compassion for him when another voice sounded – a young woman's voice – that distracted me.

"Roger, I'm here, babe," she cooed as she bounced – like she was a little kid back from a trip to the candy store or something – from my apartment door.

She was very pretty, with milky skin, a smattering of charming freckles across her nose and mostly straight, coppery red hair, falling in a disheveled but nevertheless attractive manner about her face and shoulders. She was also very skinny, and she, too, had the coming-down-from-a-high sort of look to her, but her hazel eyes were bright with a childish energy and zest. Clutched in her fingers was a small white packet, or maybe it was a clear packet that had something white in it; I couldn't tell and didn't feel like taking a closer look.

She bounced on over, holding the packet aloft and shaking it as she (walking straight through me; Mark had moved aside) skipped into Roger's room. No.. Not Roger's room. My room! And as for her walking through me, what was up with that? It wasn't that it was a bad feeling – indeed, I hadn't felt anything at all – but it was disconcerting and… just wrong. Just plain wrong. Especially for schizophrenia induced hallucinations.

"Why the hell am I doing this?" I wondered aloud, throwing my hands up and turning away from them all, ignoring Roger's at once joyful and at once upset cries. "Why the hell am I standing around, watching these delusions?

Though the questions had been rhetorical, Mark answered them, anyway, though he didn't take his eyes from Roger and April as they debated the administration of their drug. "Because, whether you admit it or not, you care."

"What? That's absurd. You're just some creepy imagined person who hangs around at random times and they're… I don't know what they are. But, you all need to just fuck off. No matter what you say, this is my apartment, this is my head, and I'd like to keep it that way, so just leave! Go! I don't need creepy, geeky little bastards living in my head, nor do I need a couple of fucked up druggies running around in it, either!" You might have noticed, by now, that my language tended to grow rather coarse when I was pissed off. Well, so now I was pissed off.

Mark just… looked at me. He'd torn his eyes away from his two friends to look at me. And then he'd faded. Just like that. April and Roger didn't, though. But, I ignored them, instead going out to my couch ( a dilapidated thing, repaired with various colors of duck tape ), grabbing my afghan and plopping upon the furniture. I pulled the blanket over me and then took my decorative pillow and squished it down over my ears. I knew I wouldn't be getting any writing done any time soon, but I'd be damned if I was going to sit and watch the figments. No, I was going to go to sleep. Or, at least try.

Perhaps it is some demonstration of my callousness when really pissed off that I drifted off within the hour, glasses pushed at an awkward angle and all.

* * *

AN: So, there you have it. Chapter II. I can't guarentee the third chapter'll be out quickly, despite it being summer break. As you may have noticed, I'm not exactly that great about speedy updates. Heh. Understatement of the year - I'm TERRIBLE at speedy updates. So... if you don't hear from me for a while, do know that I'm sorry, but I'm just having troubles with writing the next chapter. 

As for the content, what with having April & Roger there, well... since this is an apartment haunted by memories, there are gonna be both good and bad memories, right? And not every memory is going to be a crucial bit of plot or anything like that. It's just... memory. For some reason, totally random things stick out, so... yeah.

Anyway, I love you guys! So, please share the love and review...

Sargent Snarky

PS; I stayed up until five in the morning writing this, so do forgive any typos and things... or anything that doesn't make sense. And... if you see that stuff, please let me know in a review, thanks!


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